by Marissa Burt
DEDICATION
For the captives
CONTENTS
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Acknowledgments
Back Ads
About the Author
Books by Marissa Burt
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
ONE
Oh where, oh where has my magic gone?
Oh where, oh where can it be?
When the dust won’t spin,
And the stars won’t sing,
Oh where, oh where can it be?
Wren Matthews held the pile of stardust in her palm. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she willed it to do something . . . anything. Her fingers wouldn’t cooperate, and their trembling threatened to humiliate her in front of all the other Fiddler apprentices. Boys and girls—most of them older than Wren—filled the stone benches that ringed the Crooked House’s amphitheater, and every single one of them was staring at Wren.
Wren rarely wished that she were an ordinary girl, someone who couldn’t see stardust or work magic, but lately she had been daydreaming about what that would be like. If she wasn’t an Alchemist, she would be at home in her room, working on a chart of the constellations or watching one of her favorite sci-fi shows. There would be no Crooked House full of Fiddlers who could see and manipulate the magic of stardust. No apprentice lessons to teach her to use stardust rhymes. No failures at falcon riding. And none of the strange events of the last few months would have happened. There would be no nightmares where the evil Fiddler Boggen tried to manipulate her. No discovery that Boggen and his allies had colonized another planet and were now trying to return to Earth. No betrayal by her good friend Jack, who had been secretly working to help Boggen. No adventures. No Fiddlers. No falcons. No stardust. No magic.
But Wren was an apprentice Fiddler, and all of those things had happened. And other, unforeseen things were still happening. No matter how hard she tried to hide it, her ability to use the magical stardust was becoming unpredictable.
The little pile of dust in her hand flared up in a flash of rainbow colors, and for one hopeful moment Wren thought she might actually succeed in working the magic. Then the stardust turned a sickly purple and fell in on itself with a rush, returning to a stagnant pile. Wren took a deep breath and started over for the third time, trying to ignore the whispers between the apprentices nearest her.
“Wren killed Boggen,” murmured a boy in the front row.
“I don’t believe it,” said an older girl who had probably never noticed Wren’s existence before the rumors had started flying. “That girl defeated the evilest Magician in centuries? Doubtful.”
“And she kept him from returning to Earth.” The boy’s voice grew animated. “Didn’t you hear what happened at the gateway? How she saved Jack’s life?”
“So she claims.” The older girl snorted. “No one has seen Jack in weeks. He’s been shut up in the infirmary. How are we to know that Wren didn’t make the whole thing up?”
Wren’s ears burned hot, and a puff of stardust escaped from her fingers. She could hardly blame the girl for doubting her. Based on how Wren had been performing in her apprentice lessons, it was a wonder that anyone believed she could even work magic with the stardust, let alone her story about the gateway.
“But she’s a Weather Changer.” The boy probably thought he was far enough away to be discreet, or maybe he simply didn’t care if Wren overheard.
Wren gritted her teeth. She would be happy if she never heard the phrase Weather Changer again. Being one had brought her nothing but trouble. At first, she could hardly touch the stardust without bringing on a thunderstorm or warping into a dream world where she saw things she didn’t understand. But that had all been before the gateway. What had happened there had changed everything, and now Wren was lucky to feel anything at all from the stardust.
She tried again, adding another pinch of stardust, her face growing even hotter as she spilled nearly half of it on the ground. She heard the older girl’s scornful laughter mixed in among other voices.
“Not a problem, not a problem, Wren, dear. Take your time.” Fiddler Elsa swooped toward Wren, her narrow face crimped with a pleasant expression that looked strangely out of place. The Mistress of Apprentices wasn’t known for her smiles, but she had done little else since Wren’s return: smile and have extra food sent to Wren’s room, smile and give her lighter apprentice work duties, and smile some more. Since Boggen, who was responsible for the deaths of many of Elsa’s loved ones, had finally been defeated, Elsa seemed determined to replace her infamous angry demeanor with cheerfulness. One good thing about this turn of events was that Elsa’s apprentice Jill was no longer miserable. “Elsa’s like a completely different person,” Jill had said recently. “I think hearing about Boggen’s death has worked its own magic on her.” Wren could see her friend out of the corner of her eye. Jill was sitting on the edge of her seat, giving Wren a sympathetic look.
Elsa laid a hand on Wren’s shoulder. Her words came out stiffly, like she was controlling each syllable. “May I help?”
“I’ve got it,” Wren said hastily, dodging what she supposed Elsa meant to be a motherly pat. Wren began the rhyme again, whispering the words and tracing the pattern in the air. Embarrassment over her failure and dislike for Elsa warred within her. Why were they all sitting here anyway? What was the point of group apprentice lessons when the world as they knew it might be changed forever? Wren wanted to drop the stardust and jump on a seat and shout it out: “Space travel, you guys! We can freaking fly through outer space, and we’re sitting here learning how to light a fire with stardust? We have matches for that!”
But she swallowed it all down and instead tried to focus on the stardust rhyme. As she did so, the tiniest breeze drifted in from the cavern’s open balcony. A small spark flashed in Wren’s hand, and her heart quickened. Perhaps the rhyme was going to work after all.
The stardust flared to life, but with it came the searing memory of the fight at the gateway. Of the sick, tainted rhyme that nearly killed Jack and did away with Boggen. Of Jack’s lifeless body on the floor, and the moment when Wren had to funnel all her stardust into his body to jolt him back to life. The memories came like flashes, and when they had passed, Wren stood in the middle of the auditorium, empty-handed, her stardust settling at her feet.
“I’ll do it.” Simon leaped out of his seat in the front row, scooped up some of the lost stardust, and shaped it expertly into the formation needed to work the magic. Wren was torn between relief that Simon was taking over and irritation at his interference. Simon was her best friend, but it hadn’t always been that way. Back in their former life, before Wren and Simon knew about the stardust, before they had learned they could work magic, before Fiddler Mary had recruited them to come join the other Fiddlers at the Crooked House, she and Simon had been rivals in every science competition eleven-year-old homeschooled kids could enter. Even now, after they had been through so much together, Wren was still irked that he was trying to tell her what to do.
“Breathe, Wren. Just breathe,” Simon whispered before transferring the stardust into her palms. Wren repositioned herself, flexing her wrists in a circle. She had learned that these small physical movements he
lped control her emotional response to the stardust and the resulting dramatic changes in the weather. “Do you want me to work the whole rhyme? Maybe you should rest,” Simon whispered again.
Wren glared at him and said through clenched teeth, “I’ve got it.” As happy as she was to have someone who she knew wholeheartedly believed in her, Simon’s unsolicited advice could be really annoying. What made it worse was that all the gossip and pointing fingers didn’t seem to bother him at all. He got his fair share, of course, once everyone had learned how Simon had courageously risked his own life to help Wren thwart Boggen, but every time someone whispered about him, Simon remained unruffled, like a serene pond of water. Wren wished she had a cup of water handy to dump over his red head. Maybe that would get a rise out of him.
A blast of cold wind blew in from outside, and Wren caught herself just in time. She was letting the magic get the best of her again. That was what was so tricky about being a Weather Changer—it took whatever small feelings were there inside her and magnified them out of control. Wren might be annoyed with Simon, but she didn’t really want to douse him. She tucked her hair hard behind her ears, pulling on the ends a little to rein herself in, and willed herself to focus. Maybe it was a good sign that her emotions were affecting the weather. Maybe the stardust would actually respond this time. Wren took the glowing stardust from Simon. He gave her a reassuring nod before stepping back to give her space, but Wren didn’t need any more of Simon’s encouragement. She had already regained control, shutting down the memories and feelings as though she were capturing them in a little box with a lid that snapped shut. She had seen firsthand what happened when Jack hadn’t respected the power of stardust, and she, for one, would never let it catch her unawares again.
“Notice how Wren channels the stardust’s energy,” Elsa was saying, that painful-looking grin still plastered on her face. She pointed to the air in front of Wren, where Wren had worked the stardust into a tight funnel. “Excellent,” Elsa breathed.
Wren felt a little bead of sweat run down her forehead. It most definitely wasn’t excellent. Wren would be lucky if she could keep the stardust swirling long enough to say the rhyme. And apparently, she wasn’t the only one who knew it.
“Rubbish.” Baxter’s voice boomed from the entranceway. “That’s the shoddiest attempt at a fire-starting rhyme I’ve seen in my entire life.”
For the second time that lesson, Wren lost most of the stardust, as Baxter came over and snatched it from her palm. He directed a calm-as-ever Simon toward his empty seat. “Come now, Elsa,” he said. “Apprentices teaching apprentices? That isn’t quite the thing. Besides, Fiddler Mary has requested that Wren come before the Council.” A hushed whisper ran around the class, and Wren’s whole body went rigid. Being called before the Fiddler Council was the last kind of attention she needed. She had met with the Council often after her return, for of course they wanted to hear every detail of what had happened at the gateway, but it had been at least a month since she had spoken with them all together. Why do they want to see me now?
Elsa managed a frigid nod in Baxter’s direction, as though she had planned this interruption all along. “Ah, Fiddler Baxter. We’ll be happy for you to share your expertise with us.” She turned to Wren with an even frostier expression. “Run along, then. You don’t want to keep them waiting.” She beckoned Jill to follow. “Go with her in case the Council has a message for me.” Wren could tell by the way Elsa forced out the words that she was angry. Any more talk of the Fiddler Council would likely set her off. Now that Mary had taken back her rightful place on the Council, Elsa had been edged out. Wren almost felt sorry for her.
Wren rubbed the sleeve of her apprentice cloak over her forehead as she and Jill made their way out of the amphitheater. The back of her head continued to burn with the heat of dozens of apprentices’ gazes even once she was far out of view. “Are you okay?” Concern was evident in Jill’s voice, but Wren tried to ignore it. She hadn’t told her friend about her trouble with the fickle stardust, but surely Jill had noticed. Now the fact that Wren was keeping something from her sat awkward and heavy between them. Iridescent blue waves glimmered as they walked across the weathered wooden bridge over the Opal Sea that flowed through the main cavern of the Crooked House. Wren wanted nothing more than for the entire day to be over so she could escape back to the solitude of her room.
“I’m fine,” Wren said, and then forced a laugh. “If you call having an audience wherever you go ‘fine.’” Curious faces were turning to watch her and Jill as they made their way through the Crooked House. Over the past few months, Fiddlers had been arriving from around the globe, and the abandoned wings of the Crooked House were hurriedly being cleaned and polished and restored.
Fiddlers who had spent years tucked away in laboratories now congregated in open spaces that echoed with heated conversations. Wren ducked her head as she passed one such group, hoping to avoid notice. The ones allied with Cole and Mary and the rest of the Council were easy to spot. They would come up to Wren or shake her hand or congratulate her on a job well done.
And then there were the others. The ones who looked at Wren suspiciously and seemed to think the reemergence of the Magician threat was her fault. For many years they had believed that Boggen and all their other Magician enemies had been destroyed at the end of the Fiddler Civil War, but recent events had proven otherwise, and now they had the threat of a whole colony of Magicians to deal with. She understood how this might be hard for them to accept, but not how they could blame her, as though her traveling to the gateway had somehow created the problem rather than simply revealed the truth. These Alchemists were the militant ones, the Fiddlers whose conversations were punctuated with conspiracy theories and plans to go to Nod and finish the Civil War once and for all. As Wren drew near the stone stairs that led down to the Council’s meeting chamber, she could see such a group of Fiddlers, clustered around the kiosks that stood outside the oldest laboratories, men and women whose voices dropped as she drew near, their cool stares quickening her pace. Definitely the unfriendly type.
Baxter had told her to ignore them. But then Baxter was the only grown-up who seemed to tell her anything. He had practically taken over Mary’s old job as Wren and Simon’s tutor. Liza was too busy tending to Jack, and Mary was endlessly occupied with Council business. Business that was about to involve Wren.
“—this is my last afternoon here, can you believe it?”
Wren gathered her thoughts. Jill had been saying something, something Wren should have been paying attention to. Her friend’s expectant look turned into a frown accompanied by the awkwardness that was becoming all too common between them.
“Last afternoon?” Wren echoed. “You were saying . . . ?”
“I get to leave this place!” Jill nearly skipped down the stone stairs.
Of course! Wren had been so preoccupied with her own problems that she had forgotten her friend was leaving the Crooked House. Jill had taken advantage of Elsa’s newfound kindness and persuaded her to let Jill experience some of the outside world. An internship of sorts. At Wren’s house. Wren’s parents had loved the idea of having a Fiddler foreign exchange student, and now Wren almost envied Jill, who was about to embark on her big adventure of settling in to Wren’s old room and sitting in the kitchen eating pizza with Wren’s parents and doing the hundred daily things Wren used to do while checking in on Pippen Hill, which had been abandoned now that Mary, Baxter, and Liza were all needed at the Crooked House.
“I know you’ll have a great time,” Wren said. “My parents are so excited for you to visit.” Wren thought of the last day she had seen her parents. Her dad had given her a tight hug, telling her not to work too hard on her studies. “Your subconscious has a lot to deal with, Little Bird,” her dad had told her in what he probably meant to be a reassuring voice. “Give yourself some time.” What Wren thought he meant was that his subconscious had a lot to deal with. Her dad and mom had stayed at the Crooked House
the first few weeks while Wren recovered from her encounter with Boggen, sitting stiffly whenever anyone entered Wren’s sickroom, and gaping openly at the empty air when Fiddlers used stardust. They couldn’t see it, but they knew now what Wren was. It was a lot to wrap their minds around. It had been Mary who had finally encouraged them to go home. She explained how unusual it was to have non-Fiddlers at the Crooked House, that in fact it went against Fiddler law, and perhaps Wren would best be able to recover if she occupied herself with her studies.
Wren’s mom had been all hovering and anxious. “Are you sure you don’t want us to stay?” she asked about a million times on their final day in the Crooked House. Wren was absolutely positive she couldn’t sit through another tortured stare-fest with her parents. She supposed she could handle the whispers and looks from everyone else in the Crooked House, but not from them. And suspending her studies was out of the question. Wren wouldn’t even entertain the thought, and neither would her parents. Wren was proud of them for that. So with a promise to visit home at Christmastime, she had said good-bye to them, but now she wondered if she hadn’t been too quick to send them away.
“Did I tell you that Simon gave me one of his notebooks to bring with me?” Jill said. “He told me to record all of my first impressions. Said it would make for an interesting cultural study.”
“That sounds like Simon,” Wren said with a laugh.
The staircase ended, depositing Wren in a chilly stone hallway framed by arched ceilings that led toward an imposing wood door at the end. Another apprentice Fiddler was seated behind a table, looking importantly at his clipboard.
“Does the Council have any messages for Fiddler Elsa?” Jill asked, though both she and Wren knew what the answer would be.
The apprentice shook his head and then peered over his clipboard at them. “Wren Matthews? You’re wanted inside.” He held out a hand to forestall Jill. “Only Wren Matthews.”
Jill gave Wren a quick hug. “In case I don’t see you before I go.”